♡SUMMER SERENADE♡

Chapter-4

             ◉◉ Being in family ◉◉

                                                                             .Devarsh Singh Dewan.

Hate and resentment.

Those are the only emotions I feel towards my father. He never cared about me, never cared about my happiness, and never gave a damn about my opinions. Not then, and I'm damn sure he never will. He's always excelled at abandoning his responsibilities —whether in his professional or personal life. How he manages to live with so much guilt on his conscience is beyond me.

I fucking hate the way he tries to hide his deeds, pretending like he cares. One should have enough self-awareness not to lie to their only son—the one they've wronged.

I cursed myself for coming here at this time to meet Dadi (Grandmother)—the only reason I came to this country, this house. The only reason I'm tolerating this place is because she's here. She makes it bearable.

"Your college starts in a week. I've already spoken with the management. If you have any problems, let them know. Also, check your syllabus; it might differ from what you've learned so far in the States," my father said. I was coming downstairs to see Dadi, but as luck would have it, I bumped into him. Dressed in his Armani suit, ready to go—he's already showing his fatherly behavior.

Very caring. I'm touched.

"I assume you're mature enough now to know right from wrong, so refrain from any shenanigans here." With that, he started heading to the living room, but stopped when I spoke.

"I can't say about the good, but I definitely know the bad." I slid my hands into my sweat pockets. He stopped, turned, and looked at me. "And I'm already planning to stay far from them." I slightly tilted my head and shrugged, though my eyes conveyed the message clearly. Leaving him standing there, I walked to Dadi's room.

She lay straight on her bed, her back pressed against the pale blue mattress. Her body was stiff, as if afraid to move, worried her pain would return—or worse, that she wouldn't be able to fight it again.

I'm seeing her after a year, physically. She looks paler than she did last week when I saw her on video call. That time, Santosh—the house chef—answered the phone. He told me she had deteriorated after dinner, vomiting before losing consciousness. No one was home—neither her husband nor her son—just a frightened Santosh. I immediately called my grandfather, and things were eventually under control.

That day I decided—screw the hatred for anyone else—I was coming here for Dadi. After that, we got her a medical team, in the house and now she's...fine. Just fine. She had visited me in California last year and stayed for a few weeks. Even then, she looked weak, but I thought it was due to her age or arthritis. Now I regret not insisting on a check-up earlier—maybe we could have caught the cancer in time.

I sat by her bed, gently holding her fragile hand. A few seconds later, a soft smile appeared on her lips. Seeing it broke something inside me—my heart, I think. It feels like it's melting now. Her face may not be as young, but for me, she'll always be the most beautiful person in the world.

"Aagya tu?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. Her eyes remained closed, probably due to her medication.

(You came?)

"Aapko kaise pata mai hi hu?" I asked with a small smile.

(How did you know it was me?)

"Bhala koi apne jigar ka tukda kaise na pehchane?" she replied.